


I tried to speak louder, so you'd understand

by schneestern



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-09
Updated: 2008-12-09
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneestern/pseuds/schneestern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by the song <i>One More One Night Stand</i> by A Weather. Title comes from the song as well. As usual thanks to the lovely <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/">quarterturn</a> without whom this would not exist. Thanks also to <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://sunktheglow.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://sunktheglow.livejournal.com/">sunktheglow</a> for the beta.</p>
    </blockquote>





	I tried to speak louder, so you'd understand

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song _One More One Night Stand_ by A Weather. Title comes from the song as well. As usual thanks to the lovely [](http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/profile)[quarterturn](http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/) without whom this would not exist. Thanks also to [](http://sunktheglow.livejournal.com/profile)[sunktheglow](http://sunktheglow.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Pete breezes into Patrick's apartment like he owns the very air in it and Patrick isn't surprised at all. He should be, he really should be, because Pete has no reason to even be in this city tonight, but he is.

His clothes are dirty. There's a tear in the fabric of his t-shirt, right at the shoulder. His eyeliner is smudged and his lips are kiss-swollen. His fly is open and Patrick can see that Pete's not wearing any underwear from all the way across the room where he's sitting on the couch.

For a brief moment, Patrick wishes he wasn't already used to this, that he could be angry, that he could yell at Pete. He gave that up a while ago, more self-defense than defeat.

He watches the way Pete's eyes blearily focus on him and hates the apathy he sees there, wishes he could change that.

“Come here,” he says instead and Pete drops the battered leather jacket he has clutched in his hands. He toes off his shoes, hops on one foot and then the other to get his socks off, finally collapses next to Patrick on the couch. It's all one fluid motion from here to there, so natural, all Pete.

Patrick slides an arm around Pete's shoulders and pulls him in close, even though Pete smells like sweat and sex and smoke. He does it for the low noise Pete makes that could almost be contentment. Or maybe he does it because he knows what Pete will do next.

Sure enough, two heartbeats pass and Pete leans in, tiny, feathery kisses pressed against the side of Patrick's neck. It's a routine by now, one Patrick is unable to break, one he never even tried to break in the first place.

“Thought about you,” Pete whispers. And this is the worst part about it. Patrick always tries to ignore what Pete says, but no matter how hard he tries, there's a compulsion in him that makes him listen to Pete's words. Years of working Pete's lyrics into smooth hit songs, years of reading between the lines - all of it turns into an automatic reflex Patrick can't turn off anymore.

“It didn't feel anything like this, but I couldn't stop.” Pete's hand slides down Patrick's chest in the same smooth way with which he licks the words into Patrick's skin. He pops the button of Patrick's jeans, tugs the zipper down. Patrick barely has time to suck in a breath and then Pete's hand is sliding into his boxers, curling around his dick.

Warmth slowly spreads through Patrick's body. He tries to keep his breathing even, tries to keep it all in. As if he has some sixth sense that lets him see into Patrick's mind, Pete starts whispering “no, no, no,” quietly under his breath, hand slowly working Patrick's cock. And yeah, okay, Patrick can do this, he's done it before, he can pretend and forget and let go. He'll hate himself in a few hours, but that's in the future and that too is nothing new to him.

“Get out of your clothes,” he says, voice rough and scratchy, caught around a moan. He swallows hard when Pete doesn't even hesitate and moves away from Patrick to shimmy out of the rest of his clothes. When he's naked, Pete slides back into the empty space by his side, tugs on Patrick's clothes and whispers “off” into his ear, wet breath sending shivers down Patrick's spine.

And this is the crux of the whole thing. Patrick's just like Pete - he does as he's told without a second thought. If Pete says jump, Patrick jumps. The consequences are dealt with later. It's not a good way of living. Hell, it fucking hurts and Patrick has the songs to prove it, but it's a habit neither of them can shake.

Sometimes Patrick thinks it's become comfortable in its own fucked up way.

“Look at me, Trick,” Pete says like he knows that Patrick's thoughts are trailing off, chasing each other on tangents into a past that's not them anymore. “Look, _please_ ,” he says in that needy tone that does Patrick in over and over and over again.

He looks at Pete, curses softly under his breath when he sees the look on Pete's face, his dick, flushed and heavy between his legs, because he _knew_ Pete was naked, but there's always a difference between knowing and seeing. It's always like that with Pete; some days Patrick feels like things are more real around him, more immediate. It makes his heart stutter out a shaky beat like he's free falling.

Pete always catches him off guard, even when Patrick thinks he's prepared.

Usually he makes up for it with sheer force and tonight's no exception. Patrick crowds into Pete, pushes him back on the couch, covers Pete's body with his own. And he's not used to fighting with words the way Pete is, but he can't help himself in these moments, pressing down against Pete's naked body.

“Did he fuck you?” he says, harsh and raw, open in a way he only ever is with Pete. “Or did you fuck him? Come on. Tell me.” His hips stutter against Pete's, rough with too much friction, but he's getting harder anyway, has been half-hard ever since he heard Pete's key scratch over the lock of the front door.

“Fucked him in the bathroom,” Pete gets out, hands sliding over Patrick's back, up and down like he has to make himself believe this is real by touch alone. “Had too many beers; he gave me a sloppy blowjob. But he had eyes like you, Trick, fierce and--”

Patrick shuts him up with a kiss, bruising and unguarded. He tastes the other guy on Pete's lips, bites down hard to mask the taste with the iron tang of blood and hates himself when he hears Pete whimper, like he thinks he deserves this.

He doesn't, but Patrick's forgotten how to tell him that after too many months spent apart after the band split and yeah, he doesn't need to think about this now. Doesn't ever want to think about it again.

They both have their way of dealing with it.

“Let me do this, let me,” Pete's pleading, tries to flip them over on the narrow couch and to slide down Patrick's body like so many other times spent between sound checks and bathroom breaks and closely parked tour buses.

“No,” Patrick says and the hurt in Pete's eyes is something that wasn't there a couple of months ago. It's new and for that alone it feels like someone punched Patrick right in the gut. But he's determined, he's not going to let Pete control this. He's not going to be like the others.

It takes effort to hold Pete down and stretch for the drawer with the lube and condoms next to the couch, but Patrick knows what to do, knows just where to apply pressure. His fingers slide blindly over the contents of the drawer as his dick slickly drags against Pete's.

Then he's got the lube in his hands and he tosses the condom onto Pete's chest, watches his eyes flicker down and then back up to Patrick's face. There's a look there Patrick doesn't quite understand, it's something like peace or quiet defeat and something else, something fragile.

Patrick has to look away as he slicks two of his fingers up and pushes them into Pete's ass without preamble.

Pete hisses, but Patrick can feel the easy yield around his fingers and yeah, Pete's been fucked tonight, not the other guy. Patrick really shouldn't be surprised that Pete lied about that too. It makes anger burn sharp and hot in his belly anyway. He crooks his fingers just so; Pete hisses and arches, softly whispering Patrick's name.

After that he goes quiet, harsh breathing the only sound as Patrick works him open slowly, much slower than is necessary. He watches the thin sheen of sweat spread over Pete's skin, watches his eyes go hazy and licks at the hollow of Pete's throat, tasting bitter dust and sweat.

“Yeah,” Pete says, “Now, _now_ ,” as if he has any say in this and if Patrick wasn't so hard he'd hold out longer just to watch Pete crash in a wave of _needwantnow_. Instead he grabs for the condom, fumbles it open with no finesse at all and rolls it on his dick. He has to squeeze the base hard, because god, he's so close already.

Pete always does that to him - proximity like a physical thing that wraps Patrick up in its arms.

Patrick holds his dick against Pete's ass and meets his eyes, knows he looks defiant, looks like he's thinking, _I'll prove it to you_. A smirk curls at the corner of Pete's mouth, achingly familiar. Patrick pushes in hard and fast to wipe it off his face, because he can't see this, not now, not anymore.

They groan at the same time, tight fit of Patrick's dick pushed all the way inside Pete's ass. “Move,” Pete says and Patrick does, no rhythm at all, just a slow drag out and a sharp push back in. Pete's hands slide to Patrick's ass to hold him in place, guide him into a smoother rhythm that feels good, so fucking good that it makes Patrick's eyes sting.

“Gonna fuck you so hard, you'll forget all about tonight.”  
  
Patrick is surprised when he realizes that's his voice, bitter and full of resentment, but Pete just goes with it, says “Yeah, yeah, c'mon,” like he understands. And maybe he does. You never know with Pete.

For a while it's just the two of them fucking to the sound of Patrick's balls slapping against Pete's ass and moans they catch with each other's mouths. They still try to be quiet even though they don't have to be anymore.

It's different now than it was years ago, sweet thrill of novelty gone a long time ago. Patrick's back hurts, knots in his shoulders putting a thin layer of pain over everything. Years of hunching over his guitar are taking their toll and still he can't keep himself from bending over Pete, hips pushing against the soft underside of his ass.

Pete slides a leg up, presses the heel of his foot into the small of Patrick's back, making him arch in a way that makes his cock drag over Pete's prostate just so. It's a move Pete's pulled a lot of times, something Patrick recognizes from way back when. It's just one more thing now, just one more of the things about Pete that Patrick doesn't want to know.

“So close. Just a bit more--just, fuck, Patrick, _fuck_.” That too is Pete Wentz, grandly announcing his orgasm, but Patrick hears the desperation underneath and for one blindingly clear moment he can see Pete for who he really is, just a lost kid like himself.

Then Pete slides a finger between Patrick's ass cheeks and pushes in, slow, dry burn setting something inside Patrick off, like Pete just flipped a switch. He whines high in his throat, fucks into Pete a couple more times and comes hard and fast, cursing all the way.

Pete strokes him through it, impossibly gentle hand on his back, heel of his foot guiding Patrick to keep the rhythm up. Patrick buries his head in the crook of Pete's neck, sucking a bruise into the soft skin there as he lets the orgasm soften the edges of his thoughts for a bit, ignoring the little noises Pete makes to get him to keep moving.

After what seems like minutes, hours, eternities, he can feel Pete slide a hand between their bodies and wrap it around his cock, intent on getting off.

Patrick pushes himself up, muscles protesting, but this too is his and no one else's. He shoves Pete's hand away and replaces it with his own, jerks him off with steady, familiar movements, hand twisting on every upstroke. He watches Pete's head roll back against the arm of the couch, eyes closed and face scrunched up, like he's trying to hold it in for some reason Patrick doesn't, can't, understand.

“Enough,” he says harshly and Pete's eyes snap open wide and he comes, wet and warm over Patrick's hand, his whole body arching up, up, up. Patrick can see it all play out on his face for one blinding moment then, feels Pete's dick jerk in the palm of his hand. He keeps sliding his hand over Pete's dick, slowing his pace once Pete's fallen back on the couch. When Pete looks away, Patrick lets go and wipes his hand on the cushions without thinking.

He pulls out of Pete with a dirty, wet sound, disposes of the condom, already feeling the first inklings of regret, the bitter aftertaste at the back of his throat. Slowly, he rolls to the side and Pete gives underneath him, fits Patrick in all the right spaces until they're lying together, touching from shoulders to feet, Pete's back against Patrick's chest.

Patrick wants to say something, anything really, but he feels tired to the bone, exhaustion stealing the words from his lips. Pete sighs and rolls his shoulder, like he's trying to work out a kink. Patrick's eyes are slipping closed as he slides one hand over Pete's chest, fingers fanning out to touch as much skin as possible.

He hasn't slept well in weeks, picking up the habit of insomnia without planning to, and this is the first time he's finally felt like he might sleep for at least a couple of hours.

“You know this _means_ something, Patrick,” Pete whispers, just as Patrick's about to fall asleep. He says it so quietly Patrick's not sure he's meant to hear. Pete's hand wraps tightly around Patrick's. “It fucking means something.”

And Patrick falls asleep hoping that Pete's right.


End file.
